


Sandal Wants to Make You Smile

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Innocence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short drabbles about Sandal doing his best to help cheer up the men and women who are So Important. </p>
<p>Originally posted on Tumblr as meme responses/RP starters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saliya Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> Saliya Hawke comes from [here](http://soaringxhawke.tumblr.com/) and is the creation of that user.

Prompt: #1- My muse seeing your curled up in a ball sobbing, and helping them.

* * *

He didn’t think he was supposed to see. He had heard Father and Orana talking, one day, about their stoic employer; how no matter the circumstance or the occasion, she would never allow anyone to see her cry. He had thought it odd, at the time—for if no one could see you cry, how could they know you were sad? How could they hope to comfort you?

  
He had always known, though, even though Bodahn had told him never to bother her when the Song sighed and moaned and wept in his head, and it had been hard, but he had obeyed. He understood more than Bodahn in many ways, but this—this was something he trusted the elder dwarf on. So he would go to the kitchen and watch Orana bake, or hide in one of his corners and work the lyrium with his fingers and enchant something useful, something pretty, something to make her smile again.  
  
This time, though, it had caught him off guard. There was a jangling wrongness in his head, the wrong Song singing it’s discordant melodies, and he hadn’t heard the sadness under it until he’d crossed the threshold into the library and seen Hawke, curled into a ball in the big chair before the fire, sobbing. He hesitated, looking from her back over his shoulder, and back to her again.   
  
Bodahn would be angry; Hawke might be angry. But there was so much  _wrong_  here, and the Song wanted him to fix it, _needed_ him to fix it before everything fell apart and into flames. He padded softly across the carpeted library floor, and stood at Hawke’s elbow, digging into his pocket for his favourite stone—a rose quartz, worthless trash by most standards, but into which he’d inscribed a special rune. Light danced over its surface, and when held in the hand, it gave off a comforting heat, like holding a mug of tea, or cider, or hot mulled wine between your hands. He held it out to her in the palm of his hand.   
  
                                        “Enchantment?”  
  
he asked, making his voice quiet. 


	2. Leliana

Prompt: #7 - My muse will bring yours flowers.

* * *

Sandal had wandered off again.

  
He didn’t mean to, neither to go so far nor so secretly, but there had been something in the deeper woods that had tempted him onward,  a soft tinkling of tiny bells that sounded with each step he took in the thick, soft moss underfoot. He’d passed out of the circle of light cast by the fire, far enough away that the conversation of the Warden’s companions had faded first to a distant murmur and then to silence, and even Dog’s barks were no longer audible. He’d somehow evaded Zevran’s notice, as the assassin kept watch from high up in an elm tree. The forest was dark but he wasn’t afraid.   
  
The music ceased, and he looked around for whatever it was that had led him here. He pulled a glowstone from his pocket—unlike most, it shone with a myriad of colours, something he had made to entertain himself, to see if it could be done—and aimed its light into the brush around himself.   
  
                                  “Hee!”   
  
he laughed, a smile spreading across his face, and he went to his knees at the base of one tall, gnarled tree.  
  
————————————————————————————-  
  
When he returned to camp, he immediately sought out the Bard, standing by herself near to the fire. Bodahn gave him an odd look as he passed by, but said nothing, not having noticed his absence. It was a peculiar talent, but one he found useful, at times.  
  
He approached Leliana with a smile, and paused before her, looking up into her face. She was remarkably beautiful  
  
                               _the Song agreed, and so very important_  
 __  
but she had a sad, wistful expression on her face now, one which shaded her, made her seem tired and dark. It would be better, he knew, if she could smile again.  
  
He held out his prize from his foray into the forest—a handful of pure white blossoms, tiny and delicate.


	3. Nanna Amell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanna Amell comes from [here](http://wardenofthearcane.tumblr.com) and is the creation of that user.

Prompt: #5 - My muse comforts your muse.

* * *

Sandal hesitated outside of the Warden’s tent, unsure of whether or not he should enter. He could hear no sound from within; but that was nothing new, the noises of the world too often obscured from within. It was no curse, but at times, it made things difficult. 

  
                            “Nanna?”  
  
he called, voice soft and hesitant with the word, with the name. There was a warning jangle in his mind; he put it aside, and pulled aside the flaps, ducking his head into the tent to see the Warden sitting, head bowed and knees pulled up to her chin, at the far end.   
  
He did not wait for an invitation—none would come, and he didn’t wish to be sent away. Instead, he shuffled inside, looking in surprise at the ceiling as he was forced, surprisingly, to bend in order to make his way. He grinned in amusement at the novelty of it; despite being tall for a dwarf, he was still short, and it was something new to have to crouch to enter a place.   
  
He crossed the tent’s small floor, careful to step only on the canvas and avoiding the places where stones sang out underfoot. Moving awkwardly, lacking any sort of grace but doing his best to make uncoordinated disobedient limbs behave, he folded himself cross legged in front of her, looking up into her face. He reached out, but didn’t touch; just let his hand hover, fingers splayed, in something between a gesture of comfort and a greeting wave.   
  
                                                “ _He_ llo!”  
  
he murmured in his usual, cheerful singsong, though he did his best to keep it quiet, respectful, sombre. His presence announced, he let his hand fall on her arm, patting it awkwardly, humming in tune with the Song under his breath. 


	4. Meredith

Prompt: #9 - Our muses having fun at the beach.

* * *

Sand was a lot like stone in many ways, Sandal decided, carefully and precariously balancing a handful of the soft pinpricks of rock on top of the other handfuls. It was made up of the safe stuff, a hundred thousand tiny little pebbles, so small and so soft as to barely be stone at all; yet he felt it in his hands, brown-sugar and warm, and it sounded like Stone.   
  
He grinned back over his shoulder. The Knight-Commander was on her blanket, sunglasses perched on her nose and her paperback in hand. (He had looked at it, briefly, but the words made little sense. He could read them well enough, but they weren’t  _true_.) She looked stoic, grumpy even, but he could hear the contented murmuring notes matching the hush of the waves on the beach, and he gave her a large grin before turning back to crouch over his sand.   
  
The mound of sand didn’t look like much of anything, to be honest. He cast a glance down the beach, watching as children of varied ages and races played in it—burying each other, building grand castles made of cones and blocks and buckets, digging deep holes to fill with shells and pebbles and tiny captured crabs. He tilted his head as he stared at his nondecript pile, and stuck a finger in the side of it, making a hollow cave.   
  
                                              _not a Smith, no ear for new Stone_  
  
With an over-long, over-loud sigh, he pushed the pile of pinprick pebbles, spilling them haphazardly back among their fellows, and stood. He brushed wet sand from his hands, his knees, and went back to join Meredith on the blanket, setting himself on the edge carefully so that his sandy feet didn’t kick their grainy tagalongs on the warm cotton.   
  
He watched her for a moment, then looked back out at the ocean, at the huge expanse of sky, seagulls wheeling and shrieking in the air. All around was the smell of salt and Stone, and the ruckus of the gathered crowd nearly managed to drown out the Song in his ears and hands. He sat in contented silence, letting her read; until a different song broke through the heavy afternoon air, a jaunty tinkling tune that could only mean one thing.   
  
Children’s cries and laughter shrieked to a higher pitch, matching the gulls, and he turned his head so fast it nearly made him dizzy to stare at Meredith with an enormous grin. 


End file.
